I sort of hesitated to bring up Pulmo in the first place. In a selfish way, I kind of wish it does not become too popular. It is not for everybody and I hope it stays that way. For example, we met a couple on the beach that were up from Cabo San Lucas, where they have been staying at the Hilton for the past 14 seasons, and they looked completely lost. You could tell they were wondering why would anyone want to come here. Their loss. The place has a wild feel about it, even if a born and raised Pulmo boat captain told us it was “muy tranquilo”.
Following the thrill of swimming with a whale shark, we were pretty pumped about scuba diving in La Paz. After talking to the very pleasant Cécile at the front desk, we booked with Phocéa Mexico, a large (three shops in Mexico), well staffed and well equipped shop, that had been recommended by another diver (gotta love diver word of mouth). No mental alarms going off here. Yes I left a sticker.
As we headed to BCS, which is how all the hip kids call Baja California Sur (I’m pretty certain they don’t), we actually had a shopping list of underwater creatures we wanted to see, and there was supposed to be a tattoo at the outset if we saw all of them. Spoilers: we didn’t, so no tattoo. The list was composed of whale sharks, sea lions and hammerhead sharks.
Well that went quickly.
I’m sitting in an airplane seat again. Exactly the one I had on the way in, 27D. The week just flew by. My wife is sitting across the aisle from me with a red hibiscus flower in her hair, she looks fabulous, I’m curious if customs will say anything about it. The flower I mean.
I sing of your beauty Mysterious Lady of the Sea,
I sing of your beauty Ix’Chel,
I sing of your beauty Cozumel,
We try not to go dive to spots we have visited before, there’s just too much to discover, but some of us really needed a break and the deal was very good (I’m not saying we’re cheap, but you know, thrift and all that). So bags were packed, coworkers were informed, and a taxi, with the worst suspension this side of the gold rush, took us to the airport in the dead of night. It was raining hard as we walked into the terminal, hard enough to wash away all the broken dreams that hang around airports and leave a glistening sheen of silent promises. Orange cones were all over the place, like so many hustlers trying to make the most of what you’ve got. The terminal has been under construction for the last 17 years or so. Someone’s lining their pockets, probably someone called Little Joe but weighs 300 pounds. Welcome to Montreal.